


Immortal Ethanol

by Strigimorphaes



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Excessive Drinking, Frankensteins monster Gavin, Halloween AU, Hangover, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Making Out, RageHappy, Undead Michael, Zombie Gavin, spooky scary au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4965640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigimorphaes/pseuds/Strigimorphaes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though being undead makes it hard for Gavin to get drunk, Michael is more than willing to help him make the attempt while they are alone in the house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortal Ethanol

**Author's Note:**

> Based in the Spooky Scary AU (I think it originated with tumblr user padalickingood) where Gavin is some kind of undead frankenstein's monster made of sewn-together parts while Michael is immortal - he comes back if killed, has freaky eyes and a mysterious tattoo on his back. The others are also monsters. It's great.  
> This fic has some graphic descriptions of organs and Gavin's zombie-body, but nothing too bad.  
> (I love writing people being drunk just so I can throw in some flowery language and wierd imagery.)

Gavin counts.

He counts an awful lot these days. He counts fingers (10) or his other body parts (13 sewn-together pieces) or stitches along his shaky left hand (18 in need of a touch-up). He counts the days since he last slept (4), since he last ate (2) and until he can see Ryan and make sure he stays sane and in one piece (0, Ryan will be back tomorrow).

Now he counts the bottles, a solid seven in front of him.

Michael falls more than he sits down on the floor next to Gavin, leaning back against the couch that they have chosen to neglect for some already forgotten reason. He flashes Gavin a smile - sharp canines blinding white - and props his elbow up against one of the dusty cushions.

"We ready?" he asks.

Gavin nods, watching the last sun glint in the bottle-glass, in the glassy eyes of his reflection. "Let's do science."

"Drunk science," Michael replies, reaching for candy-red liquor with one hand while the other pulls out a stack of plastic shot glasses from the pocket of his hoodie. "Tried any of this before?"

"Nah," Gavin says. "Well, a little, maybe. And some beer. That didn't work." His hands are restless in his lap. He would have cracked his knuckles and bent his fingers if he wasn’t afraid they’d fall off.

"Me neither. But this," Michael says, raising the bottle, "This is, what, 15 percent alcohol? We start here and work our way up to Geoff's special whiskey."

Gavin leans in so that their shoulders knock together and hums in approval of a plan well made. They're alone in the grand old house, alone with the creaking sounds and the still night air spilling in through the open patio door. The bottle of Geoff's special whiskey looms on the right edge of the coffee table, a strange crooked shape of glass. The liquid inside that certainly doesn't _look_ like whiskey. It's oil-black, probably dragged up from a casket in Hell.

Michael has not lost any dexterity the way Gavin has. He starts with the strawberry shots and pours the drinks with decisive, swift movements.

* * *

Three (3) drinks, however many grams of alcohol that is. Bottoms up. The taste rolling around Gavin's mouth, down his tongue. _Taste!_  It is almost a novelty when most food is bland to his decayed taste buds. Saliva comes to clash against sharp licorice, sweet sweet sugar, a hint of bitterness that expands to cover his tongue. He enjoys the sensation, swallowing only slowly. Michael has no such reservations; he drinks twice in the time it takes Gavin to savor a sip. Eventually, though, Gavin decides to be a good sport and go along with Michael's pace.

"Does Geoff know that you've found that?" Gavin asks, pointing with the empty cup to the black bottle.

A droplet makes its way down Michael’s chin before he wipes it away. "Nope," he says, grinning.

Gavin lets his legs sprawl out, and Michael's hand comes to rest on his knee. Gavin guesses he's a bit bony there - the patchwork of skin and leather and thread is thinner as to not obstruct movement. Ryan had told him this while using a small hammer to test Gavin’s reflexes down in his lab. Gavin had kicked the poor scientist in the stomach, but afterwards they had just laughed about it. Ryan had looked at him with so much pride. Once that could have stemmed from the fact that Gavin was _capable_ of laughing - because Ryan was proud of making the lungs and throat and all-important brain work correctly - but maybe Ryan had been proud of making Gavin happy. A very different thing.

"You look a little absent," Michael points out, putting Gavin back in the here-and-now. "Is it working?"

Gavin looks around and tries to remember what being drunk should feel like. How the world looks when viewed through that fish-eye lens and how it made his thoughts turn in on themselves. He recognizes none of that in his current state. He shakes his head and reaches for a bottle, his hand finding it a little hard to grasp onto the glass.

"I literally can't tell if it's affecting you or if this is just your usual level of clumsy," Michael says.

"The latter."

* * *

Five (5) shots and one (1) can of beer. Varying liquors. Michael, drunker.

"Gavin," he laughs, open mouthed and with the bottle in his slack hand dipping down to drip on the carpet - "You're my - my favorite corpse, you know that?"

"Careful," Gavin admonishes him, but then his mouth goes dry. Whatever else he had been planning to say is suddenly gone; he licks his lips as he sees the way Michael's t-shirt hangs loose on him, sees the skin (pale) beneath. All the little black drawings. All the magic, all the scars that say that Michael is so much stronger.

Immortality looks good on him.

"Have another drink," Michael says. "You're skin and bones."

" 'S not funny," Gavin says, frowning. He takes the glass anyway and downs it.

"You feelin' anything, boi?"

"No-"

The words dissolve into consonant-sounds as Michael, surprisingly fast, places a hand on Gavin's jaw and holds his head up, placing a glass against his lips. It is cold, but the liquid is hot and stinging. Gavin almost forgets to swallow, so caught up in feeling of those fingers wandering along his cheek.

 _Now_ he's kind of feeling it. He swallows down quickly - it does not sting like some part of him expects it to - his throat isn't very sensitive on the inside, just on the outside where Michael's fingertips dance along lower.

Then suddenly, the cool glass is gone, replaced with warm lips.

Michael is kissing him.

Gavin opens his mouth just a little, feels Michael's tongue run alone his bottom lip. Inhales Michael's scent.

There's a soft, wet sound when they part.

"What _was_ that?" Gavin asks, a little out of breath, his slow pulse for once daring to move along a little quicker. 

* * *

Gavin has a heart. He knows it well. He has seen it on a picture that Ryan took before putting it inside his ribs, and on that polaroid the organ lies as a blackened lump on a white piece of plastic. In the background there are surgical gloves. A very white, cold light. Gavin knows it almost by heart, no pun intended.

His heart was originally a human's, and Ryan traded the tooth of a dragon for it. And though Ryan is a scientist, the first and main part of his title is _mad_ , and from that comes the runes and symbols that Gavin remembers being etched in the oily surface of the chambers.

Now and then he can feel the magic inside him like a river coursing through his limbs. Other days his heart barely moves. The muscle contracts more out of habit than out of will to actively go on, but Gavin makes a fist and drums a rhythm on the hollow part of his chest, ba- _dum_ , ba- _dum_ , ba- _dum,_ and sooner or later it all falls into place.

* * *

"That was... I don't know." Michael pulls back and closes his mouth. Takes in a quick breath through his nose. "What’d it taste like?”

And Gavin doesn't quite know if he's asking about the drink or the kiss, but he stammers out “Vodka” all the same. “Definitely something like that. Does it matter?”

“Maybe not. Have some more,” Michael says, his voice quickening, “This is definitely no fun if you're just going to sit there and judge me."

"I'm not judging anything," Gavin says, the words rolling from him because his throat can't keep anything down because it doesn't feel like a part of him right now.

Michael's breath smells of alcohol and mint leaves.

* * *

Things get hard to keep track of as the moon rises higher outside the open window, silver and green squares dancing on the floor, reflected through more and more empty bottles. Gavin keeps watching Michael’s lips every time he drinks, every time he wipes his thumb across them. Michael has a tall glass of something red with a lot of fruit in it in his hand, making Gavin wonder idly if there is any bartending experience in his past. 

"You're gonna bloody die of alcohol poisoning, Michael."

"Nah. Been there, done that," Michael says, shrugging. "Not looking to repeat it."

"Just don't like... throw up or anything."

"I won't. Promise."

And Gavin is still sober-ish, tipsy at most. He can feel the liquid in his stomach, but he knows he isn't absorbing any nutrients from it. He wants to join Michael on the other side of the gulf. Wants to stop _thinking_ so much. But this is okay too. Michael is leaning against him, heavy and light at once, yellow-on-black eyes staring at Gavin's hands, face, skin - and Gavin feels secure in knowing that Michael doesn't mind the stitches.

"Does this call for making Geoff a little mad?" Michael asks.

Gavin smiles. "Let's do it."

And Michael reaches out for the bottle at the edge of the table with all the little stars inside. Gavin doesn’t know why he did not notice them before. Little specks of white light in the blackness.

* * *

Does Michael have a heart? Tricky question; Gavin isn't sure.

Metaphorically, the answer is yes. In the fourteen months, three weeks and two days since Michael came (442 days exactly, the first one marked in the calendar now gathering dust on top of a closet somewhere) he has been doing little but proving that, bit by bit. He came in a wanderer who could barely walk for the mud that weighed down his boots, and he placed those by the door and never took them on again. In his past he might have acted heartless, but he has been a better friend than most in this house.

Physically, it is another story. Gavin has been sneaking glances at his naked chest as if he could see beneath the skin. Michael does not have a heartbeat that Ray, with his otherwise so enhanced senses, can hear. Nobody has felt a pulse from him, but who is to say both he and Gavin may not both have some similar lump of muscle magically pumping away anyway?

Undetectable, but undeniable as it lets you live a little longer.

Or a lot longer, in Michael's case.

* * *

Michael's case.

A strange way to say it.

Geoff's and Ryan's favorite way to say it. Like he is some exotic specimen to be studied: How can he keep returning to life again and again despite a hundred deaths? How did he get the markings?

How can they solve the riddle that is Michael?

Gavin doesn't know. He's given up by now just like he has given himself up to the strange embrace that Michael pulls him into by the floor, leaning against the couch with stars shining on their faces.

The thimble of blackness dips and _taste_ floods Gavin's senses again. ( _God bless Geoff Ramsey and the hell he came from)._ What little else he notices consists of only the places and ways that Michael's body is touching his and the faint echo of his laughter. Gavin assumes he must be making a strange face, because the drink is strong and the overwhelming sensation burrows down his throat and into his lungs, into the muscle of his heart, down to his guts. He breathes in sharply, the cold air like ice against the walls of his mouth. The night breeze is unable to penetrate deep enough to rid him of the heat.

And in between the warmth and cold and the sensation of things moving inside him, the sound of his own breathing loud and vast for once, he feels alive.

It helps, too, when Michael places a heavy hand on Gavin's shoulder, almost making him topple over, and says, "That looked like it worked?"

Gavin coughs out, "Yes."

Michael follows suit, and he doesn't cough as much. He just closes his eyes, his face becoming a network of fine lines and knit-together eyebrows and muscles as the liquid works its magic. When he looks at Gavin again he does so with a little feverish sheen in his eyes.

"Holy shit, that's strong."

Gavin nods.

"Fuck."

* * *

Below, Ryan's machines hum on, and on, and on, like the house has lungs that must expand and contract and make noise so that everything stays alive and well.

* * *

Somewhere in the house, a wind chime births little silver sounds without rhythm or reason. There are so many drafts. So many bells.

* * *

Water pipes whispering inside the walls. Veins, maybe. Only they don't bleed, they just groan when Ray turns the shower on at five in the morning after he returns from a full-moon night, usually waking Gavin up.

* * *

Michael hums.

"What is it?" Gavin asks.

"Some melody. I don't know."

But knowing him, Gavin guesses it could come from anywhere - east coast, west coast, everywhere in-between. It could be a children's song. It could be the next big pop-hit that never made it out of the state it was written in.

The whole room sways around them as if the universe is trying to bend all laws just to force the two of them a little closer together.

"I think I'm drunk," Gavin says. He grins, and knows that he is grinning. He loses his balance and falls forward, falls onto Michael. "We made it!"

They end up on the floor.

Michael repeats the words. "We made it."

Legs, arms, fingers: Gavin is used to being detached from all those individual little parts of him that tend to fall off or get lost in the weirdest places. Now they are undoubtedly a part of him. He is next to Michael, pressed tight against him with arms around his back, his lips caught in a kiss that tastes like strawberry and sugar.

When they part, Michael looks at Gavin with half-lidded, lazy eyes. Surrounded by the soft blue shades of the room, they light up like two little yellow sparks. His hands feel electric, too, as they crawl up Gavin’s sides, exposing his skin. Gavin can’t help smiling like an idiot -

“I love you, Michael,” he says, the words rising from him, champagne-bubbles in his chest.

“’Love you too,” Michael mutters. He refuses to look anywhere but at Gavin, who finds his own eyes darting to the ceiling every once in a while to watch the play of shadows. He feels a need to distract himself from the joy and fire in his stomach – it seems strong enough to swallow him up whole.

Michael’s fingers go up past his ribs. Gavin takes his right hand into his own, fingers entwined between their bodies.

“Did you get me drunk just to make out with me?” Gavin asks. He can hear himself slurring the words. Likes the sound.

Michael furrows his brows. “No,” he says, “I just wanted to see you… I don’t know. Carefree?”

“Well, I guess I am.”

“You’re laughing so much.”

“I guess I am.”

“And there are like, _hours_ until the others are going to be home, right?” Michael says.

“Mhm,” Gavin says. “Why?”

“Because the making out is a pleasant bonus.”

Gavin shuts him up with a single swift movement, crashing into Michael more than he actually kisses him, but it is the intention that counts.  
(Besides, Michael should know well enough to be prepared by now).

* * *

Gavin does not notice the cold when the night goes on, because Michael is warm and he is whole. Nothing matters but that. Not what he is or what anyone thinks of him, not all the bad days, not tomorrow.

* * *

And then tomorrow comes.

Turns out being undead doesn’t make you totally exempt from a hangover. Gavin’s scientific curiosity prompts him to ask how on earth it is possible – is his digestive system really working that well? Does he have a working liver? (He has to ask Ryan about that. One liver more or less can make quite a difference in one’s un-life). More than a result of any biological process, it seems like the hangover is a divine punishment for last night’s hedonism.

Gavin wakes up in his own bed, at least. The blinds are closed. Michael is laying on the floor. He looks unconscious or dead – but that’s par for the course for him.

Gavin turns, and the bed creaks beneath him. “Morning,” he says, just in case Michael is awake.

He is.

“Mmph. You too,” Michael mumbles, his words muffled by the carpet.

“That… That looks uncomfortable, boi.”

“It is.” Michael opens his eyes and then shuts them immediately, groaning in pain.

“Come,” Gavin says, and he manages to draw the blanket aside a bit. “You can get into my bed if you’d like.”

“I would. I just don’t think I can _move._ ”

Immortal, Gavin thinks, but not invincible. He closes his eyes and hears Michael drag himself from the floor. Feels the bed give under his weight. It creaks as Michael climbs in, and soon they are next to each other, shifting around to make space. The puzzle is made more difficult when neither of them want to move too much or open their eyes. Finally Michael finds peace on the outer edge of the mattress, his head resting on Gavin’s arm. He sighs with exhaustion.

“Don’t you...” he begins, “Don’t you dare say you forgot – that you forgot yesterday night.”

“I remember it all,” Gavin says softly.  

“Yeah?”

“You like girly drinks.”

Michael mumbles something that sounds like “Shut up” and then goes quiet again.

Gavin sighs contently and burrows down into the blanket. He counts Michael's breaths and his own heartbeats.

“Love you,” he says, just before he feels himself drifting off again.

“Love…” Michael begins, but he trails off before finishing, the words ending in a snore.

Gavin doesn’t mind. He knows the ending anyway.


End file.
